Say Goodbye (20 page)

“Don’t you ever sleep, Sal?”

“She’s gone,” he said flatly. “Jackie could never track her down last night. We finally stopped by first thing this morning. Apartment’s packed up and cleared out. Ginny Jones has disappeared.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Just as birds can be identified by their singing, so spiders can be sorted by their methods of killing.”

FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER,
New Yorker,
MARCH
5, 2007

“THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF POISONOUS SPIDERS IN the United States,” USDA arachnologist Carrie Crawford-Hale was explaining. “First is the
Lactrodectus mactans
or black widow, known for the bright red markings on her abdomen. Only the females bite, generally only when harassed. The second poisonous spider is the
Loxosceles reclusa
, or brown recluse, known for the violin-shaped marking on its back. Both males and females are equally toxic. Fortunately, they’re very shy, sedentary spiders who prefer to stay tucked behind woodpiles rather than intermingle with humans. Even then, there’s at least a dozen bites reported a year, some with serious consequences.”

“Define serious,” Sal spoke up. He stood close to the door and about as far away from Crawford-Hale and her microscope as he could get. A mounted scorpion was to his right; some kind of giant black beetle with enormous claws directly above his head. The GBI special agent looked tired, haggard, and nervous as hell.

In contrast, Kimberly was trying to figure out if it was polite to ask if she could peer through the microscope. She’d never seen molted spider skin at 10x magnification before. According to Harold, it was pretty cool.

Unfortunately, Crawford-Hale’s office was roughly the size of a janitor’s closet, already overflowing with equipment, filing cabinets, and jarred and mounted specimens. Harold and her family had had to wait outside. Shame, because Quincy probably would enjoy what the arachnologist had to say.

“The venom of the
Loxosceles reclusa
contains an enzyme that necrotizes the flesh of the victim.” Crawford-Hale adjusted the microscope as she shifted from right to left. “To protect against the venom, the body walls off the arteries around the bite. The skin, starved of blood, begins to die, turning black and sloughing off. I’ve seen pictures of open wounds anywhere from the size of a quarter to a half dollar. In some cases, it’s a small reaction that clears up in weeks. Other times, an entire limb might swell up and it can take months, even a year, to fully recover. The variation seems to have to do more with the response from the victim’s own immune system than from the potency of the particular spider. Basically, some people are more sensitive than others.”

Sal appeared horrified. He’d already eaten this morning, judging by the smudge of ketchup on his dark gray lapel and the pervasive odor of hash browns coming from his suit. At the moment, however, it looked like breakfast wasn’t agreeing with him.

He shifted farther away from Crawford-Hale, shaking out both arms as if feeling something crawling up his skin. “How do you know how sensitive you are?”

“First time you get bit, you learn.” Crawford-Hale straightened up at the microscope. “I’m ninety percent certain this is a
Loxosceles reclusa
. You can still make out the upside-down violin shadowing the carapace; then there’s the light brown color, the thin, almost delicate body. A more definitive diagnostic feature is the eyes—brown recluses have a semicircular arrangement of six eyes in three groups of two, while most other spiders have eight eyes. I can’t make out that level of detail from this molting, but I’m still relatively confident in my classification.”

“Aren’t brown recluses common in Georgia?” Kimberly asked with a frown.

“Absolutely. The southern states, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma—we’re lousy with brown recluses. I got a case three months ago where a family reported an infestation. I collected three hundred specimens in the first three hours. Interestingly enough, no one in the family was ever bitten. Spiders really aren’t interested in taking on creatures that can squish them with one move of their big toe.

“Of course, then there’s Southern California, which is grappling with the
Loxosceles laeta,
a species of recluse that came from Chile, Peru, and Argentina. If the venom of the
reclusa
is a cup of tea, then the venom of the
laeta
is a double shot of espresso.”

“Another reason not to live in California,” Sal murmured. He’d finally spotted the scorpion mounted beside him. He turned to give it his back, only to discover the next mounted specimen—a cockroach of truly incredible size—staring at him nose to nose.

“I don’t get it.” Kimberly was still puzzling it out. “Why would a spider enthusiast collect a specimen as common as the brown recluse, especially given that it’s venomous and thus difficult to manage?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say brown recluses are difficult to manage,” Crawford-Hale corrected immediately. “They’re some of the only spiders that can be raised communally. And there’s not an aggressive instinct among them. Provide a terrarium with plenty of dark places to hide—leaves, stones, tree bark—drop in a few crickets every week, and they’d probably live quite contentedly.”

“So…spider enthusiasts do collect them?”

The arachnologist considered the matter. “Have you ever heard of the Spider Pharm?”

“Umm, no.”

“It’s a facility out in Arizona where they raise spiders to milk for venom—”

“They what?” Sal interrupted, horrified look back on his face.

“Milk them for venom,” Crawford-Hale supplied. “Think about it: The venom from a single spider can contain nearly two hundred compounds, including substances that can dissolve flesh and short-circuit the nervous system. How great would it be to be able to analyze and duplicate some of these compounds for the pharmaceutical industry? It’s cutting-edge science.”

“They
milk
the spiders?” Sal asked again.

“They have a special machine,” Crawford-Hale stated breezily. “I haven’t gotten to do it myself, but apparently they use tweezers wired with an electrical stimulator. A very low dose of electrical shock is transmitted to the spider, which makes its venom gland contract. A droplet forms on the spider’s fang which is caught in a glass tube. Doesn’t hurt the spider, but does generate lots of venom for study. Now, at a place like the Spider Pharm, believe me, they collect, breed, and house plenty of
Loxosceles reclusa
.”

“What about a more general enthusiast?” Kimberly asked. “We believe the subject has several tarantula specimens and at least one black widow.”

Crawford-Hale shrugged. “Honestly, collectors are collectors. I went to school with a guy who found a black widow outside the dorms, so he caught it and turned it into a pet. Then, to feed the black widow, he started raising crickets. Next thing he knew, the black widow died and he was the owner of two hundred crickets. So now he farms crickets for various pet stores. Maybe you and I wouldn’t do such a thing, but it works for him.”

“How would a collector get a brown recluse?” Kimberly pressed. “Is that a specimen he would buy online, like the tarantulas, or maybe a specialized market?”

“Around here?” The arachnologist arched a brow. “He could probably just go down to his basement. Or his woodpile. Or check under rocks when hiking in the woods—”

“Hiking?”

“Sure, the brown recluses live outside year round in Georgia.”

“As in the Chattahoochee National Forest?”

“I’m sure you can find them there.”

Kimberly sighed, worried her lower lip. She turned to Sal. “So the spider casting might not have anything to do with his collection at all. Might just be another bit of debris that became stuck to his boot when hiking around the Chattahoochee.”

“He could’ve picked up the spider casting from hiking in the woods,” Crawford-Hale said. She added thoughtfully, “One thing, though: Brown recluses are notoriously shy. They retreat to dark, hidden places at the best of times, let alone when they are molting, which is a time of extreme stress for a spider. Chances are, your suspect didn’t come across this casting walking along a main trail. Much more likely he was bushwhacking, someplace remote, without a lot of people.”

“Someplace you’d hide a body,” Kimberly muttered.

“That would be your expertise, not mine,” the arachnologist said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Kimberly had to think about it. The conversation had not been as illuminating as she had hoped. Judging by the look on Sal’s face, he felt the same.

She couldn’t come up with any more questions. Instead, she stuck out her hand, thanking Crawford-Hale for her time. Sal followed suit.

“If we ever encounter a real-live brown recluse,” he asked at the last minute, “what should we do?”

“Hold very still.”

Sal shook his head. “Man, how can you do this, analyze eight-legged insects day in and day out? I’d have the creepy crawlies all of the time.”

“Oh, spiders aren’t insects,” Crawford-Hale corrected him. “Insects have six legs. Spiders have eight. Spiders
eat
insects. It’s a big difference.”

Not to Sal. “I don’t like spiders,” he stated flatly as he and Kimberly exited the office, then journeyed down the basement corridor, awash in buzzing fluorescent lights.

“Look on the bright side: At least they’re smaller than rattlesnakes.”

“Rattlesnakes? What were you doing with rattlesnakes?”

“Playing hopscotch,” she informed him. “Trust me, it didn’t work.”

They made it to the end, climbing up the stairs, then finally pushing through the glass door into the blinding sunlight. Harold, Quincy, and Rainie were waiting patiently in the parking lot, Harold’s lanky frame folded cross-legged on the hood of Kimberly’s car, Quincy and Rainie standing beside him.

“Good news?” Harold spoke up hopefully.

Kimberly shrugged. “The casting belongs to a brown recluse, which around here isn’t much different than finding a ladybug. Whoop-de-doo.”

Her father arched a brow.

“It’s a technical term,” she assured him.

“What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.

Kimberly looked at Sal. “Still no sign of Ginny Jones?” she asked.

He checked his cell phone for messages. “Nope.”

Kimberly had gone straight to Ginny’s address after receiving Sal’s call. She concurred with his initial assessment: no evidence of breaking and entering, no sign of a violent struggle. The tiny apartment appeared to have been quickly and crudely packed up, dusty imprints indicating where precious items once had been, everything else left behind.

In the bedroom, half under the bed, Kimberly had found a copy of
Good Housekeeping’s Guide to Pregnancy.
One more little detail to torture her late at night.

A BOLO had been issued for Ginny and her vehicle, while pictures of her and Dinchara were being circulated among the uniformed officers. Eight hours later and still counting, it was a waiting game.

“And still no task force,” Kimberly supplied with a sigh, before adding drily, “Though my supe is encouraging us to cooperate with Alpharetta on the matter of Tommy Mark Evans’s murder.”

“Have you spoken to the lead investigator?” Quincy spoke up.

“Not yet. Been kind of busy, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“It would be interesting to know if they recovered any shoe impressions from the crime scene,” Quincy commented.

“Oh, to be so lucky,” she agreed.

“And in the meanwhile?” her father prodded.

Kimberly shrugged, regarding Sal again with his rumpled suit and sallow, sleep-deprived features. If he found this killer, would that allow him to finally forgive himself for standing by helplessly while his father beat his mother? And if she helped him, would that make it easier for her to visit Arlington and place flowers on her mother’s and sister’s graves?

They were both chasing the impossible. And even knowing it, they couldn’t stop.

“We have another lead,” she said.

“What?”

“The gold on Dinchara’s boot. According to Harold, it probably came from the Dahlonega area. We could take a little field trip, circulate our composite sketch of Mr. Dinchara. If he’s an avid hiker who spends a lot of time in that area, maybe someone will recognize him.”

Sal brightened immediately. “Let’s do it!”

And her father said, without missing a beat, “Naturally, we’ll join you.”

TWENTY-NINE

“Indoors, these spiders are commonly found in houses and associated outbuildings, boiler houses, schools, churches, stores, hotels and other such buildings.”

FROM
Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider
BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY
1966

DAHLONEGA FELL UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE Lumpkin County Sheriff ’s Department. Unfortunately, the sheriff was out for a week on a D.A.R.E. training seminar. Instead, Sal managed to line up a four o’clock appointment with Sheriff Boyd Duffy of neighboring Union County.

Harold had to bow out. He already had an afternoon meeting with a couple of bankers helping him trace terrorist money online. His parting advice: “Visit the U.S. Forestry Service fish hatcheries by Suches. Those guys know
everything.
”

That left Sal, Kimberly, Quincy, and Rainie. With Dahlonega an hour’s ride north on the GA 400, they decided to shoot straight up and back. It would mean a late night, but they’d all worked later.

They formed a small caravan: Sal and Kimberly in the lead car, Rainie and Quincy bringing up the rear. Sal’s mood hadn’t improved since their meeting with the arachnologist. He drove with his swarthy face set in a perpetual scowl, preoccupied with thoughts he apparently didn’t feel like sharing.

Kimberly worked her cell phone. She called Mac first, but he didn’t answer. She left him a message, hoping she didn’t sound as defiant as she felt. She debated touching base with her supe, but decided less was more. No one really cared what she did for one afternoon, as long as she got the paperwork processed and kept her assigned cases moving ahead.

Which she would do. Later tonight. First thing in the morning. Absolutely.

Next, she tried the lead investigator for Alpharetta, Marilyn Watson. Watson picked up, just in time for Kimberly to lose the signal. She tried again, with mixed results.

“No latent prints…air…ber. Projectile…impressions.” Watson reported when Kimberly asked what evidence had been recovered at the Tommy Mark Evans homicide.

“Wait, you got a shoe print?”

“Tire tread…sions.”

“You got tire tread impressions? Do you know what kind of vehicle?”

More static. Fuzz. Then dead silence.

Kimberly glanced at her cell phone. Signal strength had dropped. Sure enough, she heard three beeps, then the call was gone.

She scowled while eyeing the digital display, waiting for signal strength. No such luck.

“She said they got tire tread impressions,” Kimberly reported at last. “Still not sure about shoe print or not, and it sounded like they did recover a projectile. Or maybe not. It was that kind of conversation.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“Didn’t get that far. But assuming they cast the impression, we should be able to examine it ourselves. If I ever get a signal back, I’ll see if she can e-mail the digital photos. I have some contacts that should be able to tell us fairly quickly if the tire is feasible for a Toyota FourRunner.”

Sal finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, brooding. They called to her in a way even she understood wasn’t healthy.

“You ever do anything other than work?” he asked.

“Never.”

He grunted, eyes returning to the road. “Me, neither.”

She smiled, but it was sadder than she intended.

She gazed out the window, watching the concrete jungle of greater Atlanta give way to flat brown fields. They came to a light, headed north onto Highway 60 and began to climb. The countryside gave way to startling ravines and towering hillsides, all choked with thick green kudzu vines. They passed luxury condos, a pristine golf course, exotic water features.

Kimberly started to connect some dots. If the past thirty minutes had involved hardscrabble chicken farms and trailer parks, then this section of northern Georgia was about money. Lots of it. Harold had been right—there was gold in them thar hills.

“We’re supposed to meet Sheriff Duffy at the Olde Town Grill in the center of Dahlonega,” Sal spoke up.

“You got an address?”

“You’ve never been to Dahlonega, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Trust me, no address is required.”

She figured out what he meant fifteen minutes later, when they blew by a McDonald’s, passed through an intersection, and entered a picture-perfect postcard of nineteenth-century American architecture. Bare broadleaf trees soaring in the middle of a charming public square, dominated by a two-hundred-year-old brick courthouse, now serving as the Dahlonega Gold Museum. Quaint storefronts bore signs declaring general store, gift shop, antiques, homemade fudge. Tourists meandered down quaint red-bricked sidewalks.

“I think we just entered a time warp,” Kimberly said.

“Something like that.” Sal looped around the town square, giving her the nickel tour. The flower beds were decorated with winter greens and interspersed with items such as a stagecoach wheel, or horse drinking trough, or bleached steer’s skull. It was like visiting a movie set of the Old West, except she was still in Georgia, the state she knew best for its stifling hot summers and fresh peaches.

“In late September, early October,” Sal was explaining, “this place is lousy with leaf peepers. Can’t get a parking space to save your life. You and your husband should check it out sometime. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Sal’s voice had taken on an edge. It was enough to make her say, “Absolutely. Romantic getaway, cute bed-and-breakfast, tour of the wineries. Mac would love it.”

Sal didn’t speak again, which was just as well.

He found parking in front of a giant wooden stamp wheel that, according to the plaque, had once been used to help extract gold ore. They waited for Rainie and Quincy to park, then followed the tiny arrow to the Olde Town Grill.

Sheriff Boyd Duffy was already there, occupying half of a corner booth. He was a big bear of a man with piercing black eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Kimberly was guessing former football player, avid hunter. Probably scared the shit out of the local kids. Good for him.

He was also black, which made him a bit of an anomaly for this part of Georgia.

Upon spotting them, he called out in a booming voice, “Special Agent Martignetti!” He heaved his large body from the booth with surprising agility. “And Special Agent Quincy, I presume.” He took her hand, shaking it without crushing it, further moving him up in her esteem. “Please, call me Duff. Like the beer from
The Simpsons
cartoon. Yeah, it’s a long story. Welcome, welcome. Northern Georgia’s a fair sight prettier than that smoggy ol’ city. You’re in for a treat.”

More handshakes for Rainie and Quincy, then he gestured to a larger table where they could all have a seat. Another wave of his giant arm, and a blonde with bouffant hair appeared, bearing menus and mason jars of sweetened tea. “Food here is excellent,” Duff extolled. “Fried chicken will blow your mind. Then there are the homemade cinnamon rolls and the biscuits and gravy. I recommend one of everything, but then, for a fella like me, that’s ’bout what it takes.”

Kimberly couldn’t pass up a cinnamon roll. Neither could Rainie. Quincy, predictably, ordered black coffee. Sal, at least, made the sheriff proud by going with the fried chicken. A little more small talk, and they got down to business.

“So now four busy folks like you didn’t head all the way up to the Blue Ridge Mountains just to take in our sights. What can I do for you?”

Sal took the lead: “We’re pursuing a person of interest in the disappearance of approximately ten prostitutes. We have reason to believe that the subject, an avid outdoorsman, might be familiar with this area, so we came to take a look.”

Duff raised a brow. He was no dumb bunny. “In other words, you think he dumped the bodies somewhere in these hills.”

“It’s a possibility.”

The big man sighed, folded his hands on the table. “All right. So who’s your person of interest?”

“We don’t have a name yet, just a picture.” Sal opened up his dark green binder, took out a copy of the composite sketch prepared by Special Agent Sparks and Ginny Jones, and handed it over to the sheriff. “I have extras if you need them,” he offered. “We’d like to get this circulating to as many law enforcement agents as possible.”

“Hold on, hold on. One thing at a time.” The sheriff was fumbling around with his breast pocket. He finally extracted a pair of black-framed reading glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose. He regarded the sketch, grunting softly to himself.

The waitress arrived bearing platters of food. Duff raised his arms, still holding the sketch, and the waitress slid a platter of turkey and gravy in front of him.

“Got any pictures of him without that cap?” the sheriff wanted to know.

Sal shook his head.

Duff regarded the sketch a moment longer, then set it aside, picked up his knife and fork, and cut neatly into his meal.

“Well,” he said brusquely. “First things first. I don’t recognize the fella; then again, you white guys all look alike to me.”

Sal appeared startled. Duff shot him a grin. “That was a joke, son. When you’re peeling a sixteen-year-old you’ve known all of his life off the pavement after he decided to go Evel Knievel with his new motorcycle, you gotta learn to laugh a little. You big-city boys investigate strangers. I handle my own neighbors, day in and day out. If your
subject
, as you called him, lived around here, I’d probably know him, even with that stupid cap.”

“So he’s not local.”

“Probably not full time,” Duff said. “Then again, we got tens of thousands of tourists each year, not to mention the summer people, the day hikers, the weekend hunters. Mountains are a four-season resort and we got the traffic to prove it. Now, you tell me a few things, and we’ll see if we can’t whittle this down. Where were these prostitutes last seen alive?”

“Mostly around the greater Atlanta area. Sandy Springs in particular. The club scene, not streetwalkers.”

“So your subject is working the metro-Atlanta area. Why’d you come here?”

“According to one witness, he’s an outdoorsman. We also recovered a hiking boot from the subject’s vehicle that contained plant material consistent with the Chattahoochee National Forest—”

“Couple of acres,” Duff interrupted.

“The sole of the boot contained traces of gold. That got us thinking Dahlonega.”

Duff nodded his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Been to the gold museum yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Should. It was on those front steps that Dr. Stephenson, assayer at the mint, tried to stop all the Georgia miners from bolting to California for the 1849 gold rush by saying, ‘Thar’s gold in them thar hills,’ pointing of course to the Blue Ridge Mountains. See, even back then folks were being encouraged to work and buy local.”

No one had any comment on that, so Duff returned to the matter at hand:

“Well, let’s start with your subject. Let’s assume for a moment that he is a hiker or hunter or whatnot, and like most of ’em in the state, he spends his weekends up here. Guy like that needs to eat, sleep, buy supplies. Looking at Lumpkin County, biggest town is Dahlonega. And around here, people are gonna eat at the Olde Town Grill, the Smith House, Wylie’s Restaurant, couple of other places. For lodging you got the major chains—Days Inn, Econo Lodge, Holiday Inn, Super Eight. Also, the Smith House again, which is right around the corner. It’s got good food, reasonably priced rooms, and better yet for your purposes, a gold mine on the premises. You can wave your picture in front of the staff there, see if they can tell you anything.

“For supplies, there’s the general store, but that’s really for tourists. Most folks go to Wal-Mart. Given the crowds they see, not sure if the cashiers will be able to help you. If this guy is as serious a woodsman as you think, I’d head fifteen miles north of here to Suches, which is my neck of the woods.”

“Suches?” Kimberly interrupted.

“Valley Above the Clouds,” Duff assured her. “You haven’t seen pretty till you’ve been to Suches. Now, Suches is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tiny. But given its access to the Appalachian Trail, couple of camping grounds, and the lake, it sees some traffic. You’re talking hikers, hunters, campers, four-wheelers, fishermen, bikers—”

“Bikers?” Rainie asked. “You mean like cyclists?”

“Motorcyclists. They cover the road like tar every summer. Now, if your guy is a hiker, chances are he’s stayed in Suches. Meaning he’s eaten at either T.W.O. or Lenny’s, and he’s purchased supplies at Dale’s. I’d start by taking your sketch to those three places. Face it, town that small, there’s no place to hide.”

Sal was taking copious notes. Now he looked up. “But by your own admission, Dahlonega and Suches are very busy places—”

“Sixty thousand tourists each year.”

Sal nodded grimly. “Well, see now, that’s a problem. Whole point is that this guy has been dumping bodies for over a year without anyone noticing. Given all the hikers, hunters, fishermen,
motorcyclists
, how would such a thing be possible? Forget the gold. There are tourists in them thar hills, and they photograph everything.”

Duff flashed a smile. He finished up his turkey, going to work on the mountain of mashed potatoes, before speaking again. “If your guy is dumping bodies, it’s not off a major hiking trail—you’re right, no way someone
wouldn’t
have run into him by now.” He held up a hand, starting to count off fingers. “That rules out Woody Gap, Springer Gap, the AT, the Benton MacKaye Trail, Slaughter Gap Trail—”

“Slaughter Gap Trail?” Rainie spoke up.

“Provides access to Blood Mountain—”

“Blood Mountain?” Rainie looked at Kimberly and Sal. “Personally, if I were looking for bodies, I’d start with Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain. But that’s just me.”

Duff grinned again. “As I was saying, Slaughter Gap Trail and Blood Mountain are pretty popular these days, making them
not
the best choice”—he gave Rainie an apologetic smile—“for hiding bodies. However, then we have the U.S. Forestry Service roads, many of them hard to find, easy to get lost, and almost always remote, crisscrossing all over the damn place.”